


Abhorsen-in-Waiting: The Beginning

by KageKitsune13



Series: The Abhorsen-in-Waiting [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Half-Blood Lily Evans Potter, Harry Potter is Not a Milk Bottle Dumbledore!, Harry Potter is a Horcrux, Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Necromancy, Squib Petunia Dursley, Well-Meaning Dumbledore, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, but we're working on it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-01 05:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11479887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KageKitsune13/pseuds/KageKitsune13
Summary: What if Harry’s mother hadn’t been a Muggle-born? What if she had been the heir of a long line of witches and wizards whose duty was to deal with the Dead and send them to their final rest? What if Lily had been the Abhorsen-in-Waiting?Join Lily’s father, Aster Evans, as he is begged by his daughter’s shade to save her son and see how he copes with the realization that his grandson is a vessel to one of Lord Voldemort's horcruxes.No knowledge of either Harry Potter or The Old Kingdom Series is necessary for reading this series.





	1. A Geist at the Gate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't really been in the headspace to be producing new chapters for Abhorsen-in-Waiting: The Philosopher's Stone, so I have been editing parts one and two of the series instead. There aren't any major changes to the story itself, however, I have removed many of the spelling mistakes and hopefully the grammar mistakes that existed before. If you see anything particularly noticeable still remaining please let me know.

The river island of Abhorsen’s Ait was not an overly large place. The whole of it being slightly larger than a football pitch. However, it was inhabited. Not that this was readily apparent due to the thick copses of willow, ash, and elder that shielded the only house from view. As a matter of fact, the only portions of the house that were visible from the banks of the river were the chimneys through the topmost branches of the trees.

On the night that our story begins, there silvery wisps of smoke rising from one of the chimneys. It was coming from the fireplace in the study on the house’s second floor. The room was filled with a warm flickering light. Not only from the fire burning in the grate, but also from the squat candles burning low in their brass sconces.

The walls of the study were lined with overflowing bookcases whose shelves groaned beneath the weight of heavy leather-bound tomes, stone tablets, and papyrus scrolls. The far side of the room was occupied by a large, rosewood desk with short scaled legs and a quartet of beady-eyed dragonheads, who were each gripping a corner of the writing top in their flame filled maws. Scattered about the desk’s surface were various bits and bobs: a silver inkwell, goose feather quills, rolls of parchment, and other less mundane items.

Adjacent to the dragon desk, and nearer to the fire, stood an ornate perch with a large raven drowsing atop it. Around the bird’s left ankle was a minute bangle. The band of which was engraved with curious sigils and adorned by a small silver bell.

Opposite the raven’s perch was the owner of the house, the current Abhorsen of Abhorsen’s Ait. His name was Aster Evans and he had only just managed to nod off as well. His tall frame was stretched out the full length and beyond of the overstuffed sofa he was laying upon. His feet, in their thick woolen socks, were propped up upon and dangling over the arm of the sofa that wasn’t serving as his pillow. On the floor, laying precisely where it had landed after it had slipped from sleep addled fingers was an age worn copy of _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_.

By all appearances Aster’s sleep seemed peaceful, even if it had been a long time coming. The only outward sign that it might be less than restful was the faint flexing of this long fingers – much like how a cat might knead at a blanket with its claws – as he dreamed.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be asleep for much longer. One of the peculiar devices atop the dragon desk, a glass spinning top balanced on its point, suddenly began to spin and emit a shrill whistling noise.

Both Aster and the raven awoke with a jolt. The device – a Sneakoscope – had begun to produce brilliant flashes of red light.

“Confounded contraption. What is it at this time of night?” the raven demanded, her voice a low contralto with the barest hint of a croak.

“If I were to make a guess, Fea. I would say it’s because we have a guest,” Aster replied wryly, silencing the Sneakoscope with a flick of his wand. “And it seems to be a rather unfriendly one at that.”

There were few things alive in the world that would register as a threat to an Abhorsen’s wards, but there were plenty that were dead. After all, to wear the mantle of Abhorsen was to have an uncommon affinity with death, because all Abhorsens were necromancers even if they weren’t the usual sort.

“You don’t say,” Fea remarked with an irritated clacking of her beak. 

Aster paid her no mind as he shoved his feat into his heavy leather boots; knotting the laces with a sharp series of tugs.

Heaving himself to his feet, he made a beeline to the fireplace, or to be more precise, to the objects resting upon the mantel piece. The first was a saber, which he belted at his waist with deft movements. Second was a bandoleer of mahogany colored leather. A hand’s breath wide, both it and his sword belt carried the faint scent of beeswax. Along the length of the bandoleer hung seven tubular leather pouches. The first was near the size of a small pill bottle with each consecutive pouch growing larger until the seventh, which was almost the size of a jam jar. The bandoleer was designed to be worn across the chest with the pouches hanging down. Aster slid it on over his head and felt its chill weight settle against his chest. Each of the pouches contained within it a silver bell with a pale handle made of yew. These were the tools of Abhorsen. 

Aster took a deep breath to center himself. Then he left the study, made his way down the stairs to the ground floor, and headed for the door. He paused only once to seize his woolen great coat from its place on the hatstand in the entryway and shrug it on. 

Once outside, even with the natural protective properties of running water to act as a shield, he could feel the presence of death growing stronger with each step he took along the flagstone path that led to the southern side of the ait. He didn’t stop walking until he reached the narrow, pebble strewn beach.

By the light of the moon, Aster could clearly see the dead thing that had tripped the wards on the bank opposite. The creature – a geist, if he wasn’t mistaken – looked like little more than a condensed shadow, as if someone had cut a vaguely human-shaped figure out of the night sky while carefully choosing a piece without any stars. The geist had no features at all, but Aster could see its head weaving from side to side, as though whatever senses it had were quite limited. Curiously, Aster noted, the geist was carrying what appeared to be a completely mundane sack in one of its four-fingered hands; the material of the sack a stark contrast to the geist’s surreal flesh. 

Knowing there was little he could actually do about the giest while still on the ait, Aster drew his wand from within his sleeve and began to wave it in a complicated pattern; all the while, speaking the low rolling syllables of the invocation that would summon the bridge to the riverbank. As he spoke, the slick surface of the Thames began to churn and froth as the alder wood pilings imbedded into the riverbed began pushing themselves up through the water; twisting into the shape of an ornate bridge that spanned from beach to bank. 

While the water settled itself to its new course, twining about the alder piles, Aster started across Hallow’s Bridge. His green eyes never wavering from the figure of the geist as it began to pace in apparent agitation. Slowly lifting one clumsy leg and swinging it forward, resting for a moment, then swinging the other a little past the first in a lumbering, rolling motion, which was made all the eerier due to the shuffling noise it created on the leaf strewn riverbank. 

Aster stopped a meter back from the geist, keeping his feet firmly planted upon a section of Hallow’s Bridge that left him standing above the protective flow of the river. He allowed one of his hands to fall to the hilt of his sword and thumbed the blade a finger’s-breath free of its scabbard. Freeing the sword as he had would allow for a swifter draw should he need it. He hoped he would, but he hadn’t survived this long b being careless. 

Then, prepared as he could be, Aster crossed the remaining distance between himself and the geist; moving from the bridge to the bank and from Life into Death with the same step. The rush of the Thames behind him transforming into the gurgle of the Wellspring as he crossed over. The river of Death was as cold as it always was as it flowed about his legs, eager to pull him over and carry him away. Aster exerted his will, and the cold became simply a sensation, one without danger and the current merely a pleasing vibration about his feet. The light, what there was of it, was gray and featureless, stretching out to an equally flat horizon. In the distance, Aster could hear the roar of the First Gate. 

In front of him stood the geist; as close to him now as it had been in the living world. Now though he could see its true shape clearly as it was no longer shrouded in the aura of death that had cloaked it. It was still impossible to tell exactly who or what the geist had been in life, time and perhaps the metamorphic properties of the water in the Fifth Precinct had changed its form to that of something only vaguely humanoid with an appearance closer to that of an ape than those of a man. Aster examined the creature carefully. Noting the milky glaze of its eyes. A feature that gave it the appearance of something that was either only semi-intelligent or enthralled. 

The geist shuffled forward and Aster noticed something that made a cold fury rise up within his breast. Attached to the creature’s back and running down into the river itself was a black thread. Somewhere, beyond the First Gate, or even further, that umbilical rested in the hands of an Adept. As long as the thread existed the creature would be under the complete control and mercy of its master. Someone who could use the geist’s senses and spirit however they saw fit.

Before the geist could take another shuffling step forward, Aster held out both his hands, and clapped, the sharp sound echoing for longer than it would have anywhere else. Then, before the echo could fade, he whistled several notes. The whistle echoed as well, sweet sounds within the harshness of the handclap. 

The geist’s reaction was immediate. It flinched at the sound, then took a staggering step backwards and attempted to muffle the sound by covering its ears with it’s four-fingered hands. As it did so, it dropped the sack and Aster cursed himself for having not noticed it before. Such obliviousness in a neophyte might be excused since there were very few inanimate objects that could exist in both the realm of the living and the realm of the dead, but for a necromancer as experienced as he it was simply sloppy. 

He watched warily as the geist lunged forward, plunging itself into the water, as it searched frantically for the sack. It found it almost at once, but not without losing its footing. As the sack surfaced, the current forced the creature back under. Aster felt a twinge of pity as he watched the creature struggle against the current that would take it further into death where it belonged. 

Then something completely unexpected happened. Something so shocking that Aster nearly lost his own footing. As the geist’s head broke the surface once again it cried out: “Father! My messenger! Please I must speak with you!” 

The geist was speaking with the voice of Aster’s youngest daughter, Lily.

Aster swore, his hands immediately seeking the third bell on his bandoleer, which he drew from its pouch. The geist seemed to sense the power waiting restlessly within the bell because it began to struggle against the current with a renewed vigor. In Aster’s hand the bell seemed to be trying to ring itself as it gave a twitch of its own accord against his palm, but Aster was well used to this tricksome bell and brought it under control, swinging it backwards, forwards, and then in a sort of odd figure eight pattern. The sound, all from one bell, were very different to each other, but somehow similar nonetheless. They made a little marching tune, a calling ring, the clatter of approaching steps on cobblestone. 

The geist, now caught in the grip of Aster’s spell, regained its footing and began slogging back up the river; the sack still in hand. Once it was within touching distance Aster stilled the clapper of the bell with his fingers and returned it to the bandoleer.

“Speak,” he demanded of the geist, his voice ringing with a power of its own as his hand came to rest atop the pouch that contained a bell slightly larger than the one he’d just used. The threat in the motion was clear – speak now, or be made to.

“Thank you for preventing my messenger from being pulled beyond the First Gate,” said the geist, once again speaking with the voice of his daughter. “I wouldn’t have had the strength to send him forth again and it is urgent that I speak with you.”

“Surely there are easier ways of contacting me,” Aster joked half-heartedly, a leaden feeling taking up residence in his stomach. If the messenger truly was Lily’s, and he had no reason to doubt that it was, then she herself was somewhere within death and unable to return to the realm of the living. And there were only two things that that could mean: either she had been trapped by something that should have passed beyond the Final Gate, or she herself was dead.

The geist shook its head, then spoke. Its words chilling Aster’s blood in a way the river hadn’t.

“Voldemort has come to Godric’s Hollow.”

As Lily’s voice washed over him, a vision took root in his mind; vivid images of the events she was describing were blossoming behind his eyes as though the memories of the attack were ones he’d lived through himself.

“The wards fell and we knew it had to be him. We tried to use the floo to escape, but it was blocked – just as it had been with the McKinnons…. James told me to take Harry and run – that he would hold him off as long as he could…. I could hear the Dark Lord _laughing_ as he murdered my husband…. I was in the nursery with Harry when he came for us. He told me to stand aside – that he only wanted to kill my son – but I refused! He tried anyway, but I got in the way of the spell – _that_ spell – and now I’m dead and he’s alone with my baby, Daddy! Please you’ve got to save Harry!”

Towards the end, as her voice became shrill and frantic, Aster wrenched himself from the memory as green light began to flood his vision, but, even then, he felt the echo of his daughter’s death. He wasn’t the only one effected by the memory of the Killing Curse; the umbilical attached to the geist’s back was writhing in the ater like a beheaded snake.

“Please, Daddy, you’ve got to get Harry!” wailed the geist, trying to shove the sack into Aster’s hands. “You must save him!”

“I will, Lily,” he swore, reaching out and plucking the sack from the geist’s fingers. “I swear I’ll get Harry.”

All at once the geist’s movements stilled and it allowed the current to take hold of it once again. Aster watched, fingers white knuckled around the neck of the sack, as the geist began to drift away. He heard it utter a quiet, “thank you,” as it was carried through the First Gate, which roared as it always did when something passed its falls. 

Heart heavy, Aster turned and began making his way back against the current to a point where he could easily return to life.

~¤~¤~¤~

As always, he felt a wave of nausea rise within him as the warmth of Life returned to his death-chilled body. The sensation was familiar enough that he could ignore it and instead focus his attention on the sack he now held in his hand. 

The geist was gone. Its manifestation in the living world having vanished as the spirit animating it had pasted beyond the First Gate. The only sign that it had ever been there at all was the little mound of grave mold at Aster’s feet. It too would disappear with the dawn.

“What did it want?” asked Fea as she alighted upon Aster’s shoulder, dislodging the layer of ice crystals that had formed the moment he had crossed into Death.

“It had a message for me from Lily,” Aster replied woodenly. “I took it.” 

With almost mechanical movements he opened the sack and reached inside. From touch alone he could tell that there were three things within. He drew them out one at a time. First was a dagger just a little shorter than his forearm. He didn’t need to draw it from its scabbard to know that all along the silver-steel blade would be sigils for breaking and unraveling, written spells that were especially useful for the dispatching of things already dead – the cabochon cut emerald set into its pommel told him immediately that this was his daughter’s dagger. The weapon she had chosen when she had become the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. 

He attached the dagger to his belt beside his sword and returned his attention to the contents of the sack. The next item he retrieved was also a tool meant for the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It was a set of panpipes made up of seven small silver tubes, ranging in size from the length of his little finger to a little shorter than that of his hand. Each tube had a corresponding sister in the bells that hung from his bandoleer. 

He slid the panpipes into one of his coat pockets, then reached into the sack for the final item within. The carved wooden handle of a wand met his searching fingers and with a muffled sob he drew it out of the sack. A ten and a quarter inches long willow wand rested across the palm of his hand. At its core was the heartstring of a Hungarian Horntail.

Every weapon Lily had had upon her at the moment of her death she had sent to him, so that he might attempt the impossible.

“Fea, I think it’s best we get to Godric’s Hollow as fast as the thestral flies,” he said to the creatures of magic that was perched upon his shoulder.

Fea didn’t say a word. Instead she leapt from her perch with a faint tinkling of the bell attached to her ankle. In the air, her dark form became an amorphous shadow, then touched down upon the ground before her master in the shape of a draconian winged horse with a coat as black as her feathers had been and moon-pale eyes. As always, her shadow danced across the ground in shapes that only rarely matched her current body. 

Aster gave her shoulder a brief pat of gratitude, then swung himself upon onto her back. He secured his legs around the barrel of her middle in the way that would least interfere with the beating of her wings and threaded the reins of her silver bridle through his fingers. Within moments they were aloft; the first light of dawn shining against their backs as they few towards Godric’s Hollow. Each hoping that they wouldn’t be too late.


	2. The Other Daughter

Miles away, in the village of Little Whinging, Aster Evans’s eldest daughter, Petunia, was unaware of what had happened the night before. 

In general, this was the preferred status quo for both Petunia and her husband, Vernon Dursley. Neither of them wanted anything to do with the unusual and often times dangerous world Petunia’s father and sister lived in. In fact, the Dursleys took great pains to conduct themselves in a manner that would tell everyone who met them that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. 

Petunia was a tall, yet rather thin woman with a naturally severe looking face unless she was smiling. She had left home right after taking her A Levels and had put aside the weapons and martial arts training she had received as a member of the House of Abhorsen. As the years passed she could almost convince herself that the only stilettos she’d ever owned were shoes that made her even taller than her husband. Now, she was a housewife and she did her best to look the part with her floral-patterned dresses, cardigans and perfectly coifed hair.

Her husband, Vernon, was a large, beefy looking man with the physique of a retired boxer who had begun to go a bit soft around the middle. He had shoe polish black hair and a large bushy mustache that would have given even the humblest walrus feelings of inadequacy. Unlike his wife, he had come from a perfectly normal upper middle-class family. His maternal grandfather, Rupert Grunnings, having made his money by beginning a company that made and sold drills. A company which still bore the family name. Vernon, himself, now worked as the director of the Surrey branch of Grunnings.

The final member of the household was the Dursleys’ young son, Dudley, who at seventeen months of age held a greater resemblance to a large pink beach ball that had been shoved into a brightly colored bobble hat than to either of his parents. He was without effort the apple of his parents’ eye and therefore perfect in every way.

Even the Dursleys’ home of number four Privet Drive was as perfectly normal and as unassuming as it was possible for a house to be. It possessed the same uniform, boxy shape as all of the other houses that lined the street and would have been completely indistinguishable from any of its fellows if not for the little brass number four that was tacked upon the front door.

And so, to the Dursleys, the dull grey morning they awoke to was nothing special. They went about their usual morning routines as though it were any other day. Petunia was in the kitchen attempting to wrestle a screaming Dudley into his highchair. Meanwhile, Vernon was upstairs humming tunelessly along with the wireless as he got dressed for work in his favorite drab, gray suit.

They were all too preoccupied to notice the first sign that this day was going to be anything but ordinary when a large tawny owl soared through their garden. If it had still been the wee hours of the morning the sight of the owl could have perhaps been passed off as this particular bird being a bit late in returning home to roost after a night of hunting, but the sun had been up for hours at this point. 

At half past eight, after a large breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, tomatoes, toast and tea, Vernon blotted the grease stains from his mustache with a napkin, pushed his chair away from the table, and stooped to pick up his briefcase from the floor. He gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek, then tried to kiss his son good-bye but missed. Dudley was already having his second tantrum of the morning and throwing his cereal at the wall.

“The little tyke,” said Vernon, chortling in the manner of someone who knows full well that they won’t be the one responsible for calming the screaming toddler or scrapping congealing Weetos off of the walls.

Indeed, Vernon was already humming once again as he walked out the front door and down the short garden path to his car. He then settled himself behind the steering wheel, secured his briefcase in the passenger seat, and then threw the car into reverse and back out of number four’s drive.

It wasn’t until Vernon reached the corner that he received his first indication that this day was not going to be as perfectly normal as he would have preferred. Standing on the corner was a cat reading a map. It took a few seconds for the sight of something so unusual to register with Vernon’s brain and for him to realize just what he had seen. Once he did, he immediately jerked his head around to look again. Sure enough, standing plain as day beneath the street sign was a tabby cat. Although now that he looked again there wasn’t a map in sight. 

 _You’ve not been getting enough sleep, old boy_ , Vernon mused to himself. After all, he couldn’t have actually _seen_ what he thought he _saw_. It must have been a trick of the light played on a mind that had been deprived of some much-needed sleep by a precocious little boy voicing his desire for a midnight snack. 

Nevertheless, Vernon couldn’t help eyeballing the cat suspiciously. The cat stared back for a moment before losing interest in Vernon’s gawking. Vernon, however, continued to watch the cat even as he drove around the corner and on up the road; keeping sight of it in his rearview mirror as he went. From what he could see it was now reading the sign that said _Privet Drive_.

 _No_ , Vernon scolded himself. _It’s just looking at the sign._ After all, can’t couldn’t read maps _or_ signs. 

Vernon gave himself a little shake and decided that the best course of action was to simply ignore the cat, and so he put it out of his mind. Instead, he decided to occupy his thoughts with the large order of drills he was hoping to get as he drove towards the village.

~¤~¤~¤~

While her husband was preoccupied with the mysterious cat, Petunia was busy tutting fretfully over the state of her kitchen. There were grease splattered pans atop the cooker, dirty plates strewn across the table, not to mention congealing cereal splattered across the walls. 

“Might as well get cracking, this mess isn’t going to clean itself,” she muttered, pushing her chair away from the table only to wince as she realized just what she’d said. Of course, the mess wasn’t going to clean itself – _she_ wasn’t like her sister, after all. Petunia mentally scolded her self and put such nonsense as _cleaning-spells_ out of her mind. Although she couldn’t quite banish the fact that she did occasionally miss Pell-Mell the house-elf who had been helping out with the chores around Agesander Hall since Petunia’s Great-Uncle Oleander had been Abhorsen.

Mind free of magic, Petunia tied her favorite periwinkle apron around her waist and slipped on a pair of marigolds, then set to work. The first thing she did was begin scrapping the semi-congealed Weetos from the walls and ceiling before the chocolaty cereal could fishing hardening. Next, she washed, dried, and put away the dishes and cutlery. Then, she scoured her cast iron pans with a healthy handful of salt before rinsing them with water hot enough to nearly scald her hands through her gloves. After which she placed the lot of them in the still warm oven to dry. Her final task of the morning was the sanitization of all of the countertops and cupboard doors with a mixture of vinegar-water and lemon juice – just like Pell-Mell had taught her to.

While his mother bustled about, Dudley sat in his highchair. He was contentedly gnawing upon one of the floppy ears of his favorite stuffed toy, Pudding the Rabbit. 

As Petunia finished wiping down the top of the cooker with the same sanitizing concoction the phone rang. She immediately pulled off her marigolds and seized the receiver. 

“Dursley residence, lady of the house speaking,” she began in a simpering tone, then gave a pleased gasp. “Oh, Rosalind, dear, how are you this morning?”

A genuine smile had begun to spread across her thin face. 

“Oh, I’m fine, Petunia,” said Rosalind Polkiss in an equally fond tone. “I was just calling to ask if you and Dudley would like to meet up with Piers and I in the play park in a bit? The weather is just far too nice to stay cooped up in the house, you know.” 

Petunia cast a quick glance out the kitchen window, taking not of the strip of dull, grey sky that she could see through it, then said, “Of course, Rosalind, I’ll be there in no more than ten minutes.”

“Ta, Petunia,” Rosalind gushed. “Just wait until I tell you the news!”

“I can’t wait, Rosalind,” Petunia replied, now feeling quite sure that this play date would be well worth her time especially if it meant catching up on the latest gossip. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

She returned the receiver to its hook and turned her full attention to her young son.

“How would Mummy’s Dinky Diddydums like to go to the play park and visit with one of his little friends,” she cooed, while Dudley just grinned dully up at her around the ear of his rabbit.

In no time at all, Petunia had her rotund son bundled up in a toddler sized jumper, jacket and bobble hat – “So Mummy’s Ickle Diddykins won’t catch a chill!” Then she placed him in his pushchair and they were out the door and making their way up along Privet Drive towards the park.

In all honesty, the outing would have most likely been a rather quiet and even relaxing affair if not for the fact that halfway up the street Dudley realized that Pudding had been left behind at number four. Dudley’s screams for the plush toy were loud enough that they managed to startle a tabby cat that had been lurking behind number two’s garden wall out from its hiding place; sending the animal careening off down Privet Drive in an attempt to escape the noise that the thoroughly irate Dudley Dursley was producing. 

“Oh, Diddykins don’t cry,” Petunia cooed, trying to soothe her squalling son. “Mummy promises that Pudding will be waiting for you when we go home for lunch. Okay, Sweetums?”

But Dudley was having none of it. He continued his caterwauling all the way up along Privet Drive and even as they turned the corner onto Magnolia Crescent. In fact, he kept it up until Magnolia Crescent turned into Magnolia Road. And it was only when they had just reached the entrance to the park that his cries had finally began to lessen from teeth rattling wails to infrequent sniffles.

As they passed through the park’s wrought iron entranceway Petunia’s head began to swivel around at the end of her long neck like a periscope as she tried to catch sight of her friend, Rosalind, in the sparsely populated park.

She could see a trio of venerable looking little old ladies power walking their way along the path. The one in the lead, her blue rinsed hair held out of her eyes with a lurid orange sweatband, was calling out encouragement to her two friends as the lot of them toddled past Petunia and Dudley.

“C’mon dearies,” she said. “Best be pick up the pace or you’ll be the one getting your bum pinched by Gerald Grabby-Hands at the Christmas party next month!”

“I thought that was the whole point of this extra exertion,” puffed the woman at the end of their little queue, her bejeweled spectacles flashing jauntily in the morning light, while the spritely lady in the middle erupt in peals of laughter.

The next person Petunia and Dudley spotted as they made their way along the path was a bird-watcher standing in the middle of the park green. He was gazing upwards with a rather befuddled look on his face as he looked through his binoculars.

And then, finally, seated on one of the park benches closest to the play area was Rosalind Polkiss. 

“Good morning, Rosalind,” Petunia called as she approached slender brunette. “How is Piers doing?”

“Oh, he’s quite well, Petunia,” Rosalind replied, a wide happy smile splitting her thin face nearly in two. “Piers went down without a bit of fuss last night and slept all the way through ‘til morning if you can believe it.”

Petunia wasn’t sure she could believe it. _Her_ son had never gone straight off to sleep for the night without being cajoled with one of his stuffed toys or a story or a lullaby or some combination of the three. And so, she decided that she would have discover just what her friend’s secret to getting her son off to sleep at night was and figure out if it would work on her Dudley. Not that her precious little popkin wasn’t perfect exactly the way he was…. 

Shoving her desire for more sleep from her mind, Petunia unbuckled Dudley from his pushchair and sent him off to play with Rosalind’s son, Piers Polkiss, in the sandpit. For a few moments, the two women sat quietly; watching as their sons busied themselves with little plastic spades and buckets. Then, Petunia Dursley and Rosalind Polkiss got down to what the two of them did best: exchanging the latest gossip.

They talked about the troubles the Dursleys’ next door neighbor was having with their teenage daughter (“The _vicar_ caught her and that Wilkins boy from over on Hawthorne Drive having a _snog_ in the vestibule of the church!”). Then they nattered about how Mr. Dilbert, who lived opposite the Wilkins, had allowed his front garden to become even more infested with garden gnomes and other such rubbish than ever before (“– disgraceful, it is! There ought to be some sort of law!”). And finally, they chattered their way around to the fact that the Polkiss’s next door neighbor was planning to move away just after Bonfire Night.

“Wisteria Walk just won’t be the same after they’re gone,” said Rosalind with a sniff. “They’ll be moving all the way to Midsomer and I don’t expect we’ll ever see them again… Never mind that the summer fete just won’t be the same without Mr. Arnold running the coconut shie….” 

The two women didn’t stop chattering until it was well past noon and they realized that it would probably be for the best if they got their children out of the autumn chill and fed them.

“You and Dudley should come around for tea,” Rosalind suggested as they neared the park’s gate.

Petunia was prevented from answering, however, by the bird-watcher, who was now standing by the park gate and gesturing wildly up at the sky.

“Look, look,” he was saying, pointing upwards. “It’s not just improbable – it’s _impossible_. Owls _don’t_ go flocking about like geese!”

Petunia and Rosalind cast their eyes skyward just in time to see half a dozen owls, each a different size and species, go flying over in formation. The two women gapped and stared open-mouthed as owl after owl swooped overhead, but for very different reasons. Rosalind was staring because she’d never seen an owl before. Not even at nighttime. Petunia, however, was beginning to feel rather faint. She knew that people like her father and sister used owls to send messages, but she had no idea what could be happening within their world to result in the frenzy she was seeing in the sky above her. 

“R-Rosalind,” Petunia managed to splutter. “I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on tea today. I – um – I promised Vernon something special for dinner tonight. I – It’s going to take a while to prepare. I – I’ve got to go.”

Then, without waiting for Rosalind to reply, Petunia took off for home, pushing Dudley’s chair at a much faster clip than she normally would have. As she approached number four, Petunia noticed something else that was out of the ordinary – so much for the comforting normalcy of home to calm her frazzled nerves – because there, sitting on her garden wall, was a tabby with odd little markings around its beady eyes like a pair of spectacles.

“Shoo!” said Petunia, flapping her hand at the feline. “I shan’t be giving you any handouts, so you’d best go and bother somebody else!”

“ _Shan’t_ ,” cried Dudley, mimicking his mother.

The cat didn’t move even with Petunia’s hand fluttering about in its face. Instead, it gave her a rather unimpressed look, then went back to ignoring her and Dudley as it starred off down the street with all the repose of a statuette of Bastet.           

“Bothersome beast,” Petunia muttered irritably under her breath. A few of the creatures get worshiped by a bunch of loonies in a desert and now their descendants, descendants think it’s their due. With a superior sniff, Petunia wheeled Dudley’s pushchair around and began rolling it up number four’s short garden path.

“You’d best be gone before my husband gets home,” Petunia called to the cat from her place by the front door. “He might just catch you and ship you off to that sister of his. I’m sure those ghastly dogs of hers would love turning you into a chew toy.”    

The cat merely flicked the tip of its tail dismissively. Petunia tutted, then heaved the pushchair across number four’s threshold. The bump, bump as it passed over the doorjamb made Dudley squeal in delight. 

A short time later, while Dudley gorged himself on triangles of cheese toastie and halved cherry tomatoes, Petunia found herself forlornly staring an antique compact mirror she’d dug out from underneath the loose floorboard in the spare bedroom. It was barely bigger than the palm of her hand and had such a heavy tarnish upon the lid and base that the decorative pattern was almost completely obscured.

The mirror before her was not an ordinary one. In fact, it was so far from ordinary that it really had no business being kept in a place like Privet Drive, but kept it Petunia had. Her father had given it to her when she’d decided to leave home six years ago and head off to university. He’d given it to her because she was a daughter of Abhorsen and Abhorsen had enemies that a non-magical means of communication would never work around. 

Petunia ached to use the mirror, to call him and ask what had the magical world in such a tizzy that they were ignoring their own laws of secrecy, but she held herself back. _No…_ , she thought. _I’ve made it clear that I want nothing to do with that world. Yes there are owls flying about, but that has nothing to do with us… It’s best that we stay out of it…._

Nevertheless, Petunia didn’t return the magic mirror to its dusty hidey-hole beneath the floor. Instead, she secreted it away into the drawer of her bedside table. She would keep it close for now. Just in case.

~¤~¤~¤~ 

At a quarter to six there was a crunching of gravel in the drive as Vernon arrived home from work and Petunia couldn’t help thinking as she peered out at the street through the lace curtains of the lounge that he seemed rather frazzled as he climbed out of the car.

“Shoo!” she heard him shout at the cat that was still sitting on their garden wall. Petunia shook her head in bemusement as the cat once again refused to move, then she allowed the curtain to fall back into place and went to the door to meet her husband.

“Hello, dear,” she greeted him cheerfully, only for her face to fall as she caught sight of just how harried he looked. “Whatever’s the matter?”

“It – It’s nothing, Pet,” he mumbled evasively. “Just some blasted stray cat on the garden wall, that’s all…”

“Don’t you worry, dear, it’s sure to move along once it realizes that it won’t be getting anything from us,” Petunia said bracingly. “Now, how about dinner – I made your favorite.”

If there was one thing that could perk Vernon Dursley up, it was a good home-cooked meal.

“Fried liver and onions –” he hedged.

“– with mashed potatoes and mushy peas,” she confirmed.

Dinner was a quiet enough affair that evening. Vernon didn’t seem inclined to drone on as he usually did about drills, so Petunia began chattering about the completely normal parts of her day. She told him about her outing with Rosalind Polkiss and how Dudley had learned a new word (“Shan’t!”), which he promptly demonstrated for his father by chirping it through the remainder of the meal.

After all the food had been eaten and Dudley had been put to bed, Vernon wandered into the lounge and switched on the television. The news was on and he’d apparently tuned in just in time to catch the final report of the evening: 

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls are nocturnal, meaning that they are normally only active at night and are hardly ever seen during the day, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster flashed an anemic smile at the camera. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be anymore showers of owls tonight, Jim?” 

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.” 

Vernon’s face was the color of old porridge when Petunia came into the lounge carrying a steaming cup of tea for each of them. 

 _Perhaps I should have made something a bit stronger_ , she wondered, while aloud she asked, “Are you alright, Vernon?”

He didn’t answer her right away, but after a moment he cleared his throat nervously and asked, “Er – Petunia, dear – you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?” 

It was the last question she would have ever expected him to ask her and she was left staring at him for a moment thunderstruck.

“No,” she said finally. “Why do you ask?”

“There was some funny stuff on the news,” he mumbled through his mustache. “Owls flying all over the place … shooting stars … a-and there were some funny-looking folks in the village today…”

“What sort of people,” Petunia demanded sharply. She knew that ‘funny-looking’ to her husband could mean anything from the latest stupid fashion that had caught on with the village teens to someone in the office wearing a necktie Vernon thought was too brightly colored.

“People – people in cloaks, Pet,” Vernon muttered, shrinking away from his wife’s penetrating stare. “They were all huddled up in little bunches _whispering_ together…. Then there was a little old man – also in a cloak, mind you – who was outside the office who …” Vernon’s mustache bristled, but no words came out. 

“What happened, dear?” asked Petunia, tremulously, “What did he do to you?”

“He _hugged_ me,” Vernon said with a shudder; sounding quite aghast that a complete stranger had done such a thing. “And – and he called me a _Muggle_ – whatever that is…”

 _Well,_ _hugs certainly rule out Death Eaters_ , Petunia thought bemusedly. 

“I’m sure it was terrible for you, dear,” she said aloud, trying valiantly not to laugh; then quite seriously she asked, "Though, what about all of this has you asking if I've heard from Lily?"

“Erm – well,” Vernon sputtered, “I just – er – I just thought … maybe … it had something to do with … you know … her and your father’s lot.”

Petunia sipped at her tea through pursed lips wishing it was a toddy instead.

“If they were running about in cloaks and calling people ‘ _Muggle_ ’, then you can be sure they were some of my brother-in-law’s lot,” she sniffed disapprovingly. “Daddy – for all that he’s part of that world – never would have let anyone dismiss Mummy by calling her such.”

 _Nor_ , she thought warmly, _did he ever allow anyone to get away with calling_ me _a Squib like it was something to be ashamed of._

In his armchair, Vernon was tutting pensively, obviously mulling something over.

“Their son,” he began slowly. “He’s about Dudley’s age, isn’t he?”

“A month younger,” Petunia corrected raising a single eyebrow. Vernon never wanted to discuss her family. Not that she blamed him – if she’d grown up never knowing about magic, and then had her first encounter be with a little toe-rag like her sister’s husband … well, there was a reason he hadn’t been invited to her and Vernon’s wedding….

“Ah,” said Vernon. “And what’s his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”

Petunia shook her head.

“Harry. Horribly, common name, if you ask me. I think Lily wanted to name him something traditional like Ewan or Basil, but was overruled – like someone else I might add….”

“Ah, yes,” said Vernon faintly, still looking rather ill. “Yes, I remember … but I did promise you that if we have any daughters that you could name them however you wanted….”

“Yes, I suppose you did.”

~¤~¤~¤~

A short while later the Dursleys headed up the stairs to bed. Neither of them said a word to the other as they changed out of their clothes and into their night things. While Petunia was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, Vernon crept over to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. For a reason he couldn’t quite explain, he felt a sudden chill creep up his spine when he saw that the cat was still there. It was the same cat he’d seen that morning on his way to work. He was sure of it; it had the same odd markings around its eyes. Now here it was sitting on his garden wall and staring off down the street as though it were waiting for something to happen.

For the first time in his life Vernon wished he were imagining things, because it was one thing to suspect that the strange things on the news that had happened in the village were connected to his in-laws – it was entirely another to have it confirmed. Now Vernon loved his wife, he truly did, but he didn’t think he could bear it if it were to get out that they were related people – well, people like pair _them_.

He heard Petunia finishing up in the bathroom and tugged the curtains closed. He then went over to the bed and got under the blankets. He was joined a moment later by his wife, who immediately rolled over and dropped off to sleep. Vernon wasn’t that lucky. He lay awake for quite some time, turning it all over in his mind. In the end, his last comforting thought before he finally fell asleep was that even if his in-laws were involved, there was no reason for it to affect him and his family. After all, the lot of them were _all_ well aware of what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind – he yawned and tucked a massive arm across his wife’s thin waist – none of this _magical_ nonsense could affect them….

He had no idea of how very wrong he was.


	3. The Boy Who Lived

While Vernon Dursley was drifting off into an uneasy sleep, the cat on number four’s garden wall was still wide awake and seemed just as disinclined to move from its perch as it had been when told to shoo earlier in the day. Still as stone, it sat there immovable as a statue. Its luminous eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of the street. It was so intent in its watching that it didn’t even twitch when a car door slammed the next street over, nor did it seem to notice when a pair of owls went swooping by overhead. In truth, it was nearly midnight before the tabby moved at all.

Its eyes narrowed and its tail flicked in interest as a strange looking man appeared on the corner of Privet Drive right below the street sign.

The man was dressed in a set of plum colored robes with a bit of silver embroidery upon the left breast. Though the embroidery was barely visible beneath the long, voluminous purple cloak he was wearing over top them. He was a fairly tall man. In fact, he was nearly as tall Aster Evans, however some of this man’s height was owed to the high-heeled boots on his feet. He was also quite a bit older than Petunia’s father if the silver color of his long hair and beard were anything to go by. Nevertheless, his eyes seemed to project a sense of vitality and life as they seemed to twinkle behind the half-moon spectacles that were perched atop his long, crooked nose. As for who this man was, his name was Albus Dumbledore.

Dumbledore seemed to be completely unconcerned with the fact that he had just arrived in the sort of place where everything about him was about as welcome as snow in summer. He was too busy searching for something in one of the inner pockets of his cloak to pay any mind to such a little detail as being unwelcome. Something he wasn’t willing to overlook, however, was the fact that he wasn’t alone in the street. He paused in his rummaging long enough to glance over the lenses of his spectacles at the tabby cat that had been watching him this entire time. The sight of the cat seemed to amuse him for some reason, because he chuckled quietly to himself, then resumed rummaging through his cloak’s many, many pockets until he finally found what he had been looking for.

At first glance, the device in his hand appeared to be an antique cigarette lighter, but it certainly didn’t function as such. Dumbledore opened the device with a practiced flick of his wrist, held it into the air, and clicked it. Instead of a little flame appearing or even the production of a few sparks, something quite unexpected happened – the light of the nearest streetlamp winked out with the faint _pop_ of a blown lightbulb.

Judging by the pleased twitch of Dumbledore’s long mustache this was the desired effect of the little device. Still smiling, he clicked it once again and the second closest lamp sputtered into darkness with the same faint _pop_. Twelve times Dumbledore clicked the Deluminator and each time another light was guttered until every light on the street except for two, which were the glowing eyes of the cat on the Dursleys’ garden wall, were put out.

If any of the residence of Privet Drive had still been awake at this late hour to even think about peering out of their windows for a glance at the street below they would have been met with a wall of darkness.

And so, satisfied that he would remain unobserved, Dumbledore slipped the Deluminator back into his pocket and set off down the street to number four. Once there he joined the tabby cat on the garden wall. He didn’t look at it, but he did speak to it. 

“Fancy meeting you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the cat, but it had vanished. In its place sat a rather austere looking woman whose black hair had been drawn back into a tightly coiled bun. She, too, was wearing a cloak, but she wasn’t wearing robes beneath its emerald green folds. Instead she was wearing a long, black dress that looked as though it had gone out of fashion sometime around the turn of the century. However, despite her carefully styled hair and stern mien, she looked more like a bird whose feathers had been ruffled than the sleek feline she had been only a moment before. 

“How did you know it was me?” she asked, absently adjusting her square rimmed spectacles. Spectacles, as it were, that were the exact same shape and color as the markings the cat had had around its eyes.

“Minerva, my dear, in all my years I have never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

Professor Minerva McGonagall was not the least bit impressed with answer. 

“Well, you’d be a might bit stiff too if you’d been sitting on a brick wall all day,” she informed him brusquely.

“All day,” he queried. “When you could have been celebrating? Why I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor McGonagall harrumphed, eyeing his plum colored robes meaningfully.

“Quite busy at the Ministry, are they?” she probed. “You would think they would be a bit more concerned about how everyone _else_ is celebrating, but _no_ – why interrupt their merrymaking for such a trifling matter as the _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_ ….” She shot Dumbledore a hard look. “Even the Muggles have noticed that something is going on,” she added fiercely, gesturing towards the Dursleys’ darkened window. “I could hear them talking about it on their news. Entire parliaments of owls flying about … shooting stars…. They may not have our talents, but they’re far from stupid, Albus. Which is more than I can say about some of our kind…. Shooting stars down in Kent – that has Dedalus Diggle written all over it.” 

“Now, now Minerva,” Dumbledore chided her gently. “You mustn’t be too cross with them. As you well know we have had precious little to celebrate these past eleven years.” 

“I’m perfectly aware of that, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall impatiently. She’d only just begun to allow color to return to her wardrobe after four years of only widow’s weeds. “But people are being down right careless. The lot of them, out congregating on Muggle streets in broad daylight and none of them even bothering to try and blend in, all of them swapping _rumors_ ….”

She threw a piercing, sideways glance at Dumbledore, as though hoping he might shed a bit of light upon the rumors she herself had heard, but he remained stubbornly reticent.

“You know,” she went on, “it would be a fine mess if, on the very day He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named seems to have disappeared at last, the Muggles were to find out about the lot of us after two hundred and eighty-nine years of hiding…. You do suppose he really _is_ gone, don’t you, Dumbledore?”

“It does appear to be the case,” said Dumbledore mildly. “We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?” 

Professor McGonagall blinked in confusion.

“A _what_?”

“A sherbet lemon,” Dumbledore repeated, then explained. “They’re a sort of Muggle sweet I’ll admit I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall sternly. It was clear that she didn’t think that this was the time for sweets. “As I was saying, even if You-Know-Who _is_ gone –”   

“Honestly, Minerva, surely a person as sensible as yourself can call him by his name? All of this ‘You-Know-Who’ and ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ nonsense – from the start I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: _Voldemort_.” Professor McGonagall flinched as though half-expecting the utterance of the name to draw the Dark Lord down upon them, but Dumbledore went on as though he hadn’t notice. “First, and foremost, because I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Lord Voldemort’s name and secondly, because I believe it could lead to quite a bit of confusion when people go about constantly referring to any person as ‘You-Know-Who’.” 

“Albus Dumbledore, you are the only person who would ever think that it could lead to _confusion_ ,” she informed him, sounding half exasperated, half admiring. “Then again, you are the only one _he_ was ever frightened of.”

“You flatter me, my dear, but Voldemort had powers that I will never have.”

Professor McGonagall shot him a look of disbelief.

“That’s only because you’re too _noble_ to use them.”

“You know it’s lucky it’s so dark,” Dumbledore chuckled bashfully. “I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey complemented me on my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall cast her dark eyes heavenward. She was silently wondering how this conversation had gotten so far off course. Meanwhile, Dumbledore, seemingly oblivious, was busying himself with the selection of his next sherbet lemon.

“Albus, please, I need to know if the rumors are true,” she said, deciding that she couldn’t stand to dance around the subject any longer.

Dumbledore appeared suddenly weary.

“I’m afraid that the rumors are true, my dear Professor. Both the good … and the bad….”

Professor McGonagall pressed a shaking hand to her heart while her eyes flooded with tears.

“Oh, Albus…,” she croaked. “I can’t believe it … Oh, James and Lily … I didn’t want to believe it…”

Dumbledore reached out with a wizened hand and patted her softly on the shoulder. “I know … I know…,” he said mournfully.

“That – That’s not all, Albus,” Professor McGonagall added in a trembling voice. “They’re saying that – that _Voldemort_ tried to murder J-James and Lily’s son Harry, too. But – but somehow, he _couldn’t_. Something – and no one is sure _what_ – stopped him. They’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s power _broke_ – and that’s why he gone.”

Dumbledore merely nodded solemnly.

“You – you mean it’s _all_ true,” she gasped. “After everything that monster’s done … all the people he’s murdered and had murdered … he was stopped by a little boy? It’s – it’s incredible … but how in the world did Harry survive?”

“That I’m afraid we may never truly know,” Dumbledore said softly. “Those who could have told us are far beyond our reach….”

Professor McGonagall nodded slowly, as though not quite sure what to make of Dumbledore’s remark; but, since the tears streaming down her face were getting the better of her, she decided to put it out of her mind for the moment. Instead she tugged a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and began drying her eyes beneath her square spectacles.

Dumbledore gave a single, great sniff, then took an odd golden pocket-watch from another of his many pockets and began to examine it. It truly was an odd timepiece, if that’s what it was at all. It had twelve dials, but no numbers; instead, there were little gemstone planets moving about the edge. The device must have made some sort of sense to Dumbledore, however, because when he returned it to his pocket he remarked, “Hagrid’s late.” He shot a sideways glance at Professor McGonagall, who was still drying her eyes. The look was just as piercing as any of those she had fixed upon him. “I suppose that it was him who told you where to find me,” he asked.

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice was still creaky from crying. “He mentioned that you had some business here after you finished up at the Ministry.” She sniffed softly, but as she went on her voice regained some of its usual brusqueness. “I don’t suppose that you’d mind telling me why you decided to come _here_ , of all places?” 

“That, my dear, is quite simple,” Dumbledore informed her. “I have come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle.”

“You’ve _what_ ,” Professor McGonagall exclaimed aghast. “You don’t mean – you _cannot_ mean the people who live here?” she cried, jumping to her feet and waving her handkerchief in number four’s general direction. “Albus – you can’t. I’ve watched these people all day. They are the worse sort of – of _Muggle_ imaginable. You couldn’t find a pair of people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son – I saw him carrying on all the way up the street, screaming at his mother for sweets. You really want Harry Potter to come and live _here_! They’re –”

“– his family,” Dumbledore interrupted her firmly.

Professor McGonagall looked far from convinced.

“But what of our world, Albus?” she asked “If he grows up here who will tell him about his heritage…?”

“His aunt and uncle will, of course,” Dumbledore told her as though it were as simple as that. “I’ve written them a letter explaining what’s happened.”

“A letter?” Professor McGonagall muttered disbelievingly, sitting back down on the wall and shooting a look in Dumbledore’s direction that said quite plainly that she thought he’d taken leave of his senses. “Really, Albus, you think you can explain something of this – this – _magnitude_ to a pair of Muggles in a letter? After tonight Harry Potter will be famous – a legend – there will be books written about him – why in a year’s time I doubt that there’ll be a single person in our world who doesn’t know his name. He’s already being heralded as the Boy-Who-Lived!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore his expression becoming quite serious. “Famous before he can do little more than toddle! Famous for something he won’t even remember! It’s enough to turn any boy’s head. He’ll be far better off growing up away from all of that … until he is ready….”

Professor McGonagall looked as though she wished to object, but in the end, she let it go.

“I suppose you are right, Dumbledore,” she murmured. “How will he be getting here? I doubt that you’re hiding him in one of your pockets.”

Dumbledore smiled genially.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

Professor McGonagall’s expression became quite stern.

“Do you think it’s _wise_ to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore said sternly. “I would trust Hagrid with my life.”

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” Professor McGonagall clarified, “but you cannot deny that he can be a bit careless. He tends to – what in the blazes is that?”

The stillness of the night had been broken by a low rumbling sound. A rumbling that began to grow steadily louder as Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore began to look up and down the dark street for some sign of the headlight it had to be attached to. The sound had just begun to swell to a thunderous roar when they both looked up and something quite unexpected happened – an enormous red-and-gold motorbike came hurtling out of the sky and landed on the blacktop in front of them.

The motorbike, while a rather large machine in its own right, looked like little more than a child’s tricycle when compared to the man astride it. A veritable giant, he was easily twice as tall as a regular man and at least three times as wide. He seemed too big to really exist, and so _wild_ with his long, wiry black hair and beard. Neither of which looked as though they’d ever heard of a brush or comb much less encountered one. 

“Ah, Hagrid, at last,” said Dumbledore, sounding quite relieve as he identified the motorbike’s rider. “And where did you get that contraption?” he asked, warily.

“Young Sirius Black lent it to me, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” said Hagrid as he climbed carefully off the motorbike. He was moving as slowly as he could so that he didn’t jostle the bundle of blankets he was holding in his vast, muscular arms. “I’ve got him here, sir.”

“No problems, I trust, Hagrid?” Dumbledore asked pointedly.

“No, sir,” Hagrid confirmed. “Th’ house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. Little tyke seems ter like flyin’. He was out as soon as we got in to the air.”

The professors leaned forward over the bundle of blankets. Swaddled within, just visible beneath the folds of fabric, was a little boy. As Hagrid had said, he was sound asleep, his dark lashes like sooty smudges against his pallid cheeks.

Professor McGonagall’s eyes narrowed as she spied something out of place on the boy’s forehead, partially hidden beneath a flyaway lock of jet-black hair.

“What’s this,” she murmured, brushing the boy’s fringe aside and freezing at the sight of what she’d uncovered: Dead center on young Harry’s forehead was a cut shaped like a bolt of lightning. The lines of which were so cleanly etched they could have been made with a scalpel.    

“Is that where –?” she asked in a horrified whisper.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore gravely. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you _do_ something about it, Albus?” she persisted, feeling that there was something quite _wrong_ with the mark.

“It's not within my power to do anything about it I'm afraid and even if I could, I'm not sure I should,” Dumbledore said cryptically. “Sometimes scars can come in quite handy…. I myself have one above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground…. Though,” he added wryly. “It’s a bit difficult to use it as such without causing a scandal, though, I must say –”

He trailed off. The look Professor McGonagall was now directing at him was positively frigid and said quite plainly that she found this particular topic to be more than a little inappropriate.

Dumbledore gave a faint cough.

“Yes, well,” he said, turning his attention to Hagrid. “Best give him here, Hagrid – we shouldn’t linger here any longer than we have already.”

“Of – of course, sir,” said Hagrid, placing Harry’s bundled form into Dumbledore’s arms. “Best try not to wake him, sir.”

Dumbledore said nothing. He gazed for a moment into Harry’s sleeping face, then turned towards the Dursleys’ house.

“Could I – could I say good-bye to him, sir?” Hagrid asked; then, before Dumbledore could reply, he bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him a very scratchy and whiskery kiss to the top of the head. The giant had no more backed a single step away when he let out a howl of sorrow.

“Shhh!” scolded Professor McGonagall, “you’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” Hagrid sobbed, “But I c-c-can’t help it – Lily an’ James are dead – an’ poor little Harry’s off ter live with Muggles –”

“Oh, Hagrid, we’re all upset, but you must get a hold of yourself or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall urged the large man, handing him her lace handkerchief – which looked positively miniscule in his massive hand and was barely large enough to blot away the tears of a single eye at a time. While she was patting the giant consolingly on the arm, Dumbledore had stepped over the low garden wall and walked up to the door of number four.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Dumbledore placed Harry down on the doorstep, then he took a letter in a heavy parchment envelope out of his cloak and tucked it inside of Harry’s blankets. With this done he came back over to the other two. For a full minute, the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s massive shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“S’ppose so,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice as he returned the now spotted lace to Professor McGonagall. “I best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall – Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose into the air and soared off into the night.

“I shall see you back at the school soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall merely blew her nose in lieu of answering.

A rolling rumble of thunder echoed throughout Privet Drive as Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. Once on the corner, he took out the Deluminator, turned a small dial on the side, and clicked it once. Twelve balls of light sped back to their streetlamps. By the glow of the returning lights, Dumbledore could make out the sight of a tabby cat creeping off around the corner at the other end of the street and he could see the bundle of blankets on the doorstep of number four.

“Good luck, Harry Potter,” he murmured, turning on his heel, and then with a swish of his cloak he was gone.

An autumn chilled wind ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive as the rumble of more thunder stole across the otherwise quiet street. Inside his blankets, Harry Potter rolled over without waking up; one small hand closing upon the letter beside him as he slept on. All too soon, however, the first drops of rain would begin to fall and the sole surviving member of the Potter family would wake to find himself in a very strange place.


	4. An Unexpected Arrival

The next morning, Petunia Dursley received the shock of her life when she opened her front door to put the milk bottles out for collection. What she had expected to find was a barren doorstep with perhaps a bit of debris that had been kicked up from the storm the previous night. What she found was a sodden bundle of blankets.

Scowling, she cast her pale gaze up and down the street, half-expecting to see the little hoodlums from Hawthorn Way crouched behind her garden wall. The lot of them snickering like fools about how clever a prank it was to make her clean a pile of rubbish off of her front step. To her surprise, however, the street appeared quite empty.

“So, what’s this then,” she wondered, leaning forward and gingerly peeling back the top layer from the sodden mess.

An instant later, with her heart in her throat, Petunia clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry of dismay as she realized what she was looking at. Inside the bundle of blankets was a baby no older than her own Dudley; its dark hair plastered in ink like runlets across its deathly white face.

“ _Merciful Moira_ ,” she cried, scooping the little one’s limp form into her arms heedless of the sopping wet blankets the swaddled it. “Oh, please – don’t be dead – _please_ don’t be dead,” Petunia pleaded, her fingers fluttering helplessly across the baby’s throat in a desperate search for a pulse. “Oh thank goodness,” she wheezed, knees going weak when she finally found the butterfly wing flutter of the baby’s pulse against the pads of her fingers.

On legs that felt like overcooked noodles Petunia staggered back into the house and made a beeline straight for her kitchen. Once in her sanctuary, Petunia unwrapped the blankets from around the baby with trembling hands, stripped it – _no_ , her hindbrain observed – _him_ of his equally sodden pajamas and nappy and then dropped the whole dripping mess into the sink.

All the while the baby in her arms remained distressingly limp.

 _He’s fading, you can feel it…_ , a quiet little part of Petunia’s brain whispered and she knew that if she had half the talents of her father and sister that she would be able to hear the gurgling of the Wellspring lurking just out of sight.

“No, he’s just hypothermic,” she whispered harshly to herself. Banishing any thought of the Wellspring and Death from her mind. Petunia was not like _them_. She had no magic and she didn’t need any. There was a perfectly normal solution to all of this….

“I’ve just got to get him warm,” she reassured herself, tucking the limp little body against her breast and pulling the fluffy material of her dressing gown tightly shut around the both of them. She ignored the way her skin prickled with gooseflesh as the chill from the boy’s body began to seep into her own. 

Then, after what seemed like an age, Petunia was rewarded by the sound of a faint mewling cry and the feel of minute tremors as the baby began to shiver. The little one’s temperature was finally beginning to rise from the dangerously low levels it had fallen to.

“There we go,” she hummed, rubbing gentle circles on the boy’s back through her robe as the baby’s fussing became more animated. “That’s a good boy.”

As the baby’s cries reached a pitch that would have put even her own Dudley’s wall rattling wails to shame, Petunia sensed more than heard the heavy footsteps of her husband as he came staggering down the stairs. If she knew Vernon, which she did, he was in search of the noise that had dared to wake him before the morning alarm had even had time to chime.

Sure enough, a moment later, Vernon Dursley came lumbering into the kitchen, scowling like a bear with a sorehead. His normally immaculate shoe-polish black hair was in complete disarray. One side was plastered flat against his skull from where it had been caught between the side of his head and the pillow, while the other was standing on end as though he’d received an electric shock.

“What’s all this hullaballoo about, Petunia?” he asked blearily, peering through sleep laden eyes at his wife. “Dudders isn’t colicky again, is he? I thought you said that was all over with.”

Petunia couldn’t repress her sigh of exasperation. She loved her husband – truly she did –however, on occasion, Vernon Dursley could be thicker than week old treacle.

“Does this _look_ like Dudley,” she snapped waspishly, tugging the front of her dressing gown open so that her husband could see quite clearly that the baby held against her near nonexistent bosom did not possess the golden locks of their own child.

For several minutes Vernon did nothing but splutter. Then, once he had regained control of his faculties, he exclaimed, “That’s not Dudley!”

Petunia valiantly fought down the urge to clock her husband upside the head with one of her prized cast iron frying pans. Instead, she settled for recovering the squalling toddler with her dressing gown and rolling her eyes beseechingly in the direction of the ceiling. 

“ _Obviously_ ,” she stated, trying – and failing – to keep from sounding like her sister's childhood best friend.

Vernon, who was still gaping at the crying baby as though he’d never seen one before, didn’t seem to notice her tone.

“But – but where did it come from?” he asked.

Petunia heaved another sigh.

“I don’t know, dear,” she said, gently patting the baby until his cries began to taper off once again. “He was on the _doorstep_. Some –” she paused, took a deep breath, then released it slowly to keep from screaming – “some _person_ left him on our doorstep in the middle of the night!” It was all she could do to keep from railing about the type of pus-sucking, gangrenous malignancy of a mental amoeba who could have possibly thought it was all well and good to leave a defenseless child out on a doorstep in the middle of the night in _November_ during a _downpour_.

“Was there a note?” Vernon asked, drawing his wife from her mental rant.

Petunia blinked.

“You know I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Hold him for a moment, Vernon, while I check the rags he was wrapped in.”

Vernon spluttered once again, but accepted the boy into his arms readily enough. He didn’t even bother putting up a token protest as the boy began to make faint snuffling noises as he burrowed deeper into his arms, one little hand closing upon the edge of Vernon’s pajama shirt pocket. 

Meanwhile, Petunia strode over to the sink and began rummaging through the still soaking pile of blankets for something that would tell her and her husband just who this child was. In no time at all she found something and the sight of it made her heart drop like a stone.

It was a letter addressed in a looping hand to Vernon and herself – and it was completely _dry_. Unlike the blankets around it, the yellowish paper – _parchment_ , her mind supplied – was utterly untouched by the previous night’s rainfall.

“What is it, Pet?” Vernon asked anxiously.

Petunia swallowed shakily around the lump that had mysteriously taken up residence in her throat.

“I – I’m not sure,” she managed, unsealing the envelope with the edge of a nail. Then, with a trembling hand, she removed several pages of parchment from within. Each one was covered in the same looping hand that had addressed the envelope.

“Well, what does it say?” asked Vernon impatiently and without further prompting Petunia began to read aloud:

“‘ _Dear Mr. and Mrs. Dursley,_

“‘ _The child you have found upon your doorstep is your nephew, Harry_ ’ –”

“ _What!_ ” exclaimed Vernon, holding the baby he’d previously been cradling against his chest as far away from himself as he possibly could without dropping the boy, his expression one of equal measure fury and alarm. “What the devil is _he_ doing _here_!”

“I’m getting there, Vernon!” Petunia snapped, before reading on, “‘ _It is to my great regret that I must inform you that his parents are no longer with us._

“‘ _Lily and James Potter were murdered sometime in the early hours of yesterday morning by_ ’ – ” Petunia’s face drained of all color – “‘ _by the Dark wizard, Voldemort_ ’ – Oh, Lord,” she breathed fearfully.

“Petunia?” queried her husband, still holding Harry as though expecting him to explode, but Petunia wasn’t listening. She was busy reading through the rest of the letter:

_At this time, it is unknown how young Harry was able to survive the attack, but I can reasonably hypothesize that whatever forces rebound Lord Voldemort’s final curse and allowed your nephew to survive were also responsible for the Dark Lord’s apparent downfall._

_Most likely caught in the backwash of his own spell, Voldemort has apparently been stripped of his powers and it appears he has fled to parts unknown. News of his defeat at Harry’s hands is swiftly spreading throughout the magical community. And though this is the source of much celebration among the majority of the Wizarding World I fear there are those who would still seek the boy out with malice in their hearts._

_Because, even though Voldemort now exists in a reduced capacity, that does not mean his followers will not still be scouring the countryside for any sign of their fallen master or the one who they believe to have dealt him such a devastating blow._

_It is because of this danger that I have taken the liberty of ensuring that an ancient form of protection shall be invoked the moment any member of your household carries young Harry across the threshold of number four. This protection should ensure that your home remains a safe haven for both Harry and your family from the forces of Darkness until the boy’s majority._

_I thank both you and your husband for the service you are doing the magical community by taking young Harry in until it is time for him to return to the Wizarding World._

_Yours sincerely,_

Albus Dumbledore _,_

_Order of Merlin, First Class; Grand Sorc.; Chf. Warlock, Wizengamot; Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards; and Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

“That – that complete and utter _bastard_ – how _dare_ he,” Petunia hissed, reading over the letter a second and then a third time. If she understood what Dumbledore was saying, then they were well and truly stuck. The conniving old wizard had ensured that her family’s safety from Voldemort’s Death Eaters relied on the very thing that was putting them in danger in the first place residing in their home. The absolute nerve of the man!

While Petunia was busy seething, Vernon was gathering his courage. 

“Pet – er – Petunia, dear – what is it? What’s happened?”

Petunia exhaled slowly, allowing some of her fury to bleed away like steam from an overheated kettle.

“Albus I-Have-Entirely-Too-Many-Titles Dumbledore has decided that we are to be the boy’s guardians,” she snarled.

“ _Who?_ ”

Petunia pursed her lips in distaste and tried to think of the best way to answer her husband’s question.

“He’s someone with a lot of power in – in the Wizarding World,” she explained quickly, as though hoping that if she delivered the information fast enough it would be less painful. “He’s apparently decided that we’re to watch over the boy until he’s old enough to reenter their community.”

Vernon scowled thunderously at the toddler who was now staring at him rather listlessly from an arm’s length away. “And just when might that be,” he demanded. 

Petunia didn’t answer right away. She was too caught up by the sight of her nephew’s eyes, which were a kaleidoscopic mixture of emerald and jade that she would have recognized anywhere as Abhorsen’s Eyes. They were the exact same shade and shape of her sister’s, her father’s, and countless other generations going back to Amarantha the Unfading and the founding of their line.

Finally, Harry blinked and Petunia came back to herself.

“Eleven,” she said, answering her husband’s earlier question and putting all thoughts of what Abhorsen green eyes meant for Harry’s future out of her mind. “Harry – He’ll get his acceptance letter to – to the school my sister went to when he turns eleven…. That’s most likely when they’ll want him back….” 

If possible, Vernon’s expression became even more thunderous.

“But that’s ten years,” he exclaimed. “You mean to tell me that they expect us to take care of this – this _freak_ for ten years?!”

“Yes, Vernon,” Petunia snapped ferociously. “That’s how these people are. They barge into your life, turn everything topsy-turvy and then expect you to feel grateful for the privilege. I thought you realized that when you met my sister’s good-for-nothing husband at our engagement party!" 

“But isn’t there anything we can do?” Vernon asked, sounding rather desperate.

Petunia opened her mouth, paused as a thought struck her, and then said, “You know, Vernon, there just might be.”

Then, before she could lose her nerve, she told Vernon not to move, darted from the room, dashed up the stairs, and retrieved the two-way mirror from her bedside table. With the mirror clasped in a white-knuckled grip she hurried back down to the kitchen.

“What’s that you’ve got there, Pet?” Vernon asked, eyeing the little compact mirror with deep distrust.

“It’s – it’s a magic mirror,” said Petunia, her voice pitched almost inaudibly low as though she were afraid of being overheard. “My father gave it to me so that I could get a hold of him if – if something _weird_ ever happened….”

Vernon’s face turned a particularly lurid shade of puce making him look rather like a beetroot with a bad hairdo. 

“A – a _m_ - _magic_ mirror,” he rasped, sounding more than a little disturbed that such an obviously _abnormal_ object was being kept in his house. “Petunia, _why_ –?” 

“Oh, Vernon, _shush_!” Petunia scolded, swinging the mirror open with a faint _click_. Then, feeling more than a little foolish, spoke the activation incantation, “ _Mirror, mirror, on the_ – er – _wall, I would like to make a call._ ”

Immediately, the glass of the mirror turned milky white and a crystalline voice spoke from somewhere behind the glass, it said: “To whom may I direct your call, ma’am?”

“Aster Evans,” she answered, feeling impress in spite of her normal misgivings. At least this magical doodad was polite.

“One moment, please,” said the mirror.

Almost before it had finished speaking, the glass cleared and Petunia was met by the sight of her father’s face peering out from the mirror. He looked ghastly. His long, auburn hair was a windswept mess, his usually neatly trimmed beard and mustache was in obvious need of grooming, and there were deep purplish-black circles ringing his blood-shot green eyes.

“Petunia,” he said immediately. “What is it? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, we’re all fine,” Petunia hastily reassured him, “even Harry – who’s here by the way.”

Her father goggled.

“ _What_?” he exclaimed. “He’s with you?”

“Yes, Daddy, he’s with us,” Petunia informed him a touch impatiently. “Albus Dumbledore apparently got it in his mind that Vernon and I would be the ideal guardians for him and dropped him off on our _doorstep_ last night,” she added, her tone making her opinion about this particular bit of wizarding logic quite clear.

“That barmy old bastard did what!” Aster exclaimed, his green eyes flashing furiously out of the mirror.

This was the only encouragement Petunia needed to begin spilling the story in full. She told him about finding Harry as she went to put out the milk bottles and the state that she’d found him in. Then, she told him about the letter Dumbledore had left. Leaving out no detail of what it said and what she feared it might mean for her and her family. As her story wound to a close, Petunia was relieved for the first time in years to hear her father say, “Try not to worry, Petunia, I’m on my way.”


	5. A Family Reunion

Aster and Fea had been just south of Oxford and winging their way towards London when they had received Petunia’s call. As it was, Aster was bone tired and felt as though every one of his fifty-nine years were multiplying the usual aches and pains of a night spent seated bareback on the bony spine of a creature in the form of a thestral. Even Fea, being the powerful creature of magic that she was, was scrapping the bottom of the barrel of her endurance. Thankfully traveling fifty miles as the crow – or in this case – thestral flies was still within the realm of her capabilities and in just a little over an hour the duo was touching down in the blessedly empty street outside number four Privet Drive.

Safely on the ground, Aster slid from Fea’s back with a bitten off groan of pain. His knees were both popping and creaking in protest as they were forced to support him. As Aster straightened from his weary stoop, Fea’s body whirled apart in an amorphous cloud of living shadow. Her only discernable feature were her moonstone pale eyes glowing like marsh-light. A heartbeat later she was settling herself in raven-form upon Aster’s left shoulder.

“Now you can carry me,” she informed him imperiously.

He chuckled hoarsely.

“I suppose it’s only fair, dear heart,” he replied, re-clinching his sword belt and shifting the bell bandoleer to a more comfortable position. Both had managed to shift during the long flight.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the sitting room window curtains of number four flicker; someone was now watching the street. Aster took this as his cue to approach the house. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when the front door swung open without him even needing to knock.

Framed in the doorway was his son-in-law, Vernon. The shorter, yet wider man’s bushy black mustache was bristling with irritation as he glowered furiously at him. If the look was intended to be intimidating Aster found it to be rather lacking. Though he supposed the full affect was rather ruined given that Vernon was still dressed in his pajamas with a puce dressing gown belted overtop them.

“Get in here before the neighbors see,” Vernon growled at him; then, after throwing a nasty sideways look at Fea, he added, “and you can leave that unnatural flying feather duster outside my house!”

A deep gurgling rasp emerged from Fea’s throat as she snapped her beak in Vernon Dursley’s direction.

“I am _not_ a flying feather duster,” she interjected coolly, seeming to double in size as her feathers stood on end. “And I don’t appreciate being insulted by a feeble-minded mortal such as yourself. I ought to –”

“Easy, Fea,” Aster murmured to his fuming companion, pressing one large hand to her feathered breast. Fea shifted from foot to foot, the tiny silver bell upon her bangled ankle – a miniature of Aster’s own sixth bell – gave a pealing ring and Fea reluctantly let the matter drop.

“A word of advice, Dursley,” Aster rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. “It’s best not to insult a being that had lived over a hundred of your lifetimes – or one who occasionally plucks out the eyes of those who annoy her….” 

While Vernon gapped like a landed fish, Aster brushed past him and into the house.

Any amusement Aster might have felt from putting his odious son-in-law in his place evaporated the moment he crossed the threshold of number four. Something was _wrong_. A feeling of unease ran through him, prickling his skin with gooseflesh and sending a cold shiver along his spine. 

He stood absolutely still for a moment, frowning as he looked about the foyer and tried to pin down the source of odd sensation. The entrance way seemed normal enough with its nicely painted walls and wainscoting. There was even a little row of hooks by the door for guests to hang up their coats and a brass umbrella stand with a couple of brollies already stored with in. Yet still something nagged him. 

Dursley seemed to have recovered from his earlier telling off because he barked, “Get a move on,” as he shut the front door with a bit more force than was necessarily required.

Aster ignored him and lifted his hand, extending with it his senses as he pushed his perception and will outward to get a feel of the vibrations of the room.

“Don’t rush me, Dursley,” he said. “I need to...” What he needed to do he didn’t say, opting to allow his words to trail off in lieu of wasting them on an explanation that would have been lost on the other man anyway. Instead, he focused on his search for the source of the sensation. 

Dursley was muttering mutinously behind him, but Aster payed him no mind.

Aster drifted along the short hallway towards the doorway that he knew led to the sitting room. Knowing from the growing feeling of nausea churning in his belly that the energy he was sensing was strongest there. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but he could sense something Dead in the room. Anxiously he cast his gaze about, searching for the source of this disturbance.

Petunia was sitting on the sofa. She, too, was still in her long nightdress with a fluffy pink dressing gown belted overtop it. Her attention was split between the two young boys in her charge. One, a rotund child with blond hair was sitting in a playpen amusing himself with a pop-up toy that consisted of a series of little figures that bobbed up and down on concealed springs when smashed by a pudgy little fist. The other, a darker haired child, was dressed in an oversized creeper that obviously belonged to the bigger boy. This boy was propped listlessly amongst a little nest of throw pillows with a blanket draped across him, yet in spite of his swaddling his skin was unnaturally pale.

“Dad,” said Petunia with a little nod of greeting.

“Petunia,” Aster returned in kind.

Petunia was looking up at him with solemn eyes.

“Something’s wrong with him, isn’t there,” she said knowingly, turning her pale gaze upon her nephew. “I’ve been trying to keep him warm, but the hot water bottles I tucked amongst the blankets don’t seem to be having any effect. Holding him helps some, but if I do this – this _weariness_ starts to take hold….” 

Aster crossed over to his younger grandson and pressed the back of his hand against the boy’s cheek as though he were checking for a fever. Harry’s green eyes tracked him listlessly and his skin was worryingly cold and clammy to the touch. Aster could sense some kind of force at work on the boy – but it was complex and required a bit of finesse to work out exactly what the energies were doing. 

The first was a gentle tingling sensation not dissimilar from the hum of a static charge and Aster knew it immediately as the aura of a young wizard who had not yet begun to consciously tap into their power. All magical persons possessed an aura and they were each unique with their own resonance. This one he knew belonged to Harry.

Next was an ocean-deep well of power that was rolling and churning like the sea. There was something of Aster’s youngest in this, but it was changed somehow as though Lily’s power had been melded with some greater forced and sent to envelop Harry like an adamantine shield. 

The reason for the tumult of this energy became apparent as Aster sensed a second force at work upon his grandson. It was a cold, crawling energy, like the rasp of scales upon stone, and it seemed to be oozing from the lightning bolt shape cut on Harry’s forehead like a fetid ichor.

The sight brought with it recollections of certain pages within _The Book of the Dead_ , each of them whispering to Aster of possibilities that he had been made to forget until that moment.

After all, _The Book of the Dead_ was no ordinary tome that could be learned from by simply reading it from cover to cover. It was a grimoire of fantastic power, containing within it all of the lore of Death and the Dead that had been collected by the Abhorsen over the ages. And it, too, possessed its own furtive sort of magic that allowed it to change to meet the necessity of its reader. However, knowledge, such as that found within _The Book of the Dead_ , could be a heavy burden to recall from day to day and so was designed to be tucked away until needed.

The grasping nature of the second foreign energy, not to mention the fact that it had chosen to latch itself to a living body, reminded Aster of a creature of the lesser Dead called a Mordaunt. And yet, something felt wrong with that conclusion. This thing, whatever it was, felt _fractured_ somehow…

“ _No_ ,” Aster breathed, hardly daring to believe the horrifying thought that was beginning to take root in his mind. Nevertheless, it was the only possible conclusion when face with the facts before him: Voldemort had created a horcrux and bound it to a _living_ vessel. 

The spell for the creation of such an abomination was in one of the last chapters of _The Book of the Dead_. He could remember it now, step-by-step, in sickening detail. No one _sane_ would ever willingly fillet their own soul in such a manner. It was an act of pure evil. The sort of evil that tainted everything it touched and encouraged further acts of evil….

“ _No!_ ” Aster growled, shaking his head as though the physical act might dislodge the terrible thoughts racing through his mind like a dog might shed water from its coat. He needed his mind clear if he was going to be able to help his grandson at all.

Horcruxes by their very nature were extremely durable. After all, it wouldn’t do to store a piece of your soul in an object that was easily broken. The process that rendered an object suitable to house a soul fragment rendered them impervious to only the most destructive of forces. There were only three that Aster knew of: The ever-ravenous flames of Fiendfyre, a silver-steel sword that had been burnished in dragon fire or a trip to the nearest active volcano. 

None of these were an option unless he planned to murder his grandson horribly. Moira be merciful, he was a living, breathing person; not some Dark Wizard’s favorite trinket…!

And maybe… Just maybe that was the answer. 

A body was meant to house a soul, but only temporarily. When the body died the soul was release into Death and Death was a necromancer’s domain. If Aster could separate Harry’s soul from his body, then he could cleave the parasitic hold of the horcrux much like he would separate a mordaunt from its host. 

“Petunia,” he cried, whirling upon his daughter. His eyes fever bright. “I have need of your back garden!” 

Until this point Vernon had been willing to hang back and mind Dudley while his wife dealt with her freak of a father, but this was going too far. The thought of his father-in-law using his garden for something freakish – and it undoubtedly would be for something freakish – was simply beyond the pale.

“Oh, no,” he blustered, stepping forward. “I’ll not have you doing any of your hocus-pocus nonsense in public where any of the neighbors might see!”

“Honestly, Dursley, it’s not as though I’m going to dance naked around a bonfire,” Aster scoffed. “I’m going to –”

“Enter Death,” Petunia finished for him, her voice quavering with unease. She cast her pale gaze over to the too still form of her nephew and said, “You know what’s wrong with him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Aster agreed somberly, gathering Harry’s limp body in his arms. As he straightened up he cast a beseeching look at his daughter and added, “You know I would never open such a gateway near your home unless I absolutely had too, Petunia.”

“Of – Of course,” she murmured tremulously. “Follow me.” 

And so, Petunia led her father out of the sitting room, down the hall, into the kitchen and out of the backdoor; a scowling, foul-tempered Vernon trailing along behind them.

The rear garden of number four was bordered by tall fence for privacy ensuring that the only way someone could see what was going on within it would be if they were exceptionally tall or possessed an exceptionally long neck.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing,” Fea croaked as Aster placed his grandson on the ground before him. “Unraveling a pair of souls from one another is tricky business. There is a reason your ancestor dealt with Herpo the Foul’s horcrux by casting it into Thera’s heart.”

“Yes, and I’m sure the Minoans appreciated her efforts,” Aster retorted derisively.

Fea clicked her beak irritated, then took wing and soared over to use Petunia as her new perch. 

Aster drew his wand from within his greatcoat, held it balanced across the palm of his left hand, and murmured, “ _Point Me_.”

The length of cypress wood spun around once and pointed towards the back garden of number six. That way was north and would mark the final point of the protective diamond he was going to construct before attempting to remove the horcrux from Harry. 

The runes for the four cardinal points of the compass formed in his mind: Austri for the East, Sudri for the South, Vestri for the West, and then Nordri for the North. These symbols would serve as the anchor points of the ward he was casting. Holding each of their designs in his mind, he drew his sword with his free hand and used its point to carve them into the ground around him. One rune marking their corresponding point of the compass. 

As he finished each rune, he murmured its name aloud, felt its magical resonance and willed that force down through his sword and into the mark on the ground. There, each one came alive with magical energy and began to glow with a golden light; then, a thin fiery line etched itself from mark to mark, completing the protective diamond.

Aster then sheathed his sword and allowed his now freed hand to rest upon his bell bandoleer. His chilled fingers counting the bells in a nervous tick he’d had since he’d served as Abhorsen-in-Waiting to his uncle. The ritual of it helped him to steel his mind when he had to do something truly difficult.

“Ranna the Sleeper,” he whispered, touching the first and smallest of the bells. It possessed a sweet, low sound that soothed those who heard it.

“Mosrael the Waker.” A harsh and rowdy bell whose sound was like a seesaw, throwing the ringer further into Death even as it brought the listener into Life.

“Kibeth the Walker.” A difficult and contrary bell of several sounds. It could grant freedom of movement to one of the Dead, or walk them through the next gate. Many an untried necromancer had stumbled with this bell and traveled where they would have preferred not to have.

“Dyrim the Speaker.” A musical bell, of a clear and pretty tone. Dyrim was the voice of the Dead that was so often stolen. However, it could also be used to still a tongue that moved too freely.

“Belgaer the Thinker.” Another tricky bell and one that often sought to ring of its own accord. Few necromancers ever used this bell as it could restore independent thought and action to those under its sway, which was never the sort of thing a Dark Wizard would wish to see in their slaves.

“Saraneth the Binder.” The bell with the deepest and lowest tone. Saraneth was the projection of its wielder’s will and allowed for the Dead to be shackled to their desires. 

Aster’s hand paused briefly before touching the seventh and largest bell. Its chill evident even through the leather case that kept it silent.

“Astarael the Sorrowful,” he whispered solemnly. Astarael was the banisher. The final bell to be used only when all hope was lost. When properly rung it cast everyone who heard it far into Death. _Everyone_ , including the ringer. 

His ritual complete and his will solidified, Aster dropped his hand from Astarael and he leveled his wand at his grandson. He focused on the destruction of the horcrux, because he knew if he thought of Harry he wouldn’t be able to do what was needed, and then he spoke two words: “ _Avada Kedavra._ ”

A flash of blinding green light – the exact shade and hue of the Abhorsen’s gaze – burst from the tip of his wand. The air was filled with an echoing roar, like water over a cataract. Then the spell-light struck Harry upon the lightning bolt scar on his forehead. The toddler gave a small shudder, then stilled. He was quite clearly dead.

Petunia let out a shriek and threw herself at her father, but was repelled by the golden barrier. As she continued to pounded her fists against it, Aster threw himself into Death knowing he wouldn’t have long before the river carried Harry’s spirit beyond the first gate. 

To the outside world it looked as though Aster was staring off into the middle distance. His gaze empty and vacant, while his eyes reflected the fiery spell-light encircling him, he didn’t see it. Then, slowly, a chill mist began to rise from his body, spread through the air around him. Petunia’s fisted hands dropped to her sides, while Vernon, who had begun scuttling away from Aster at the first flash of spell-light, now stood frozen in place too terrified to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ducks* I apologize for the cliffhanger, but please bear with me. The chapter ended up twice as long as the others so I've split it into two. The rest should be up either later today or sometime tomorrow.


	6. Once More into Death

As Aster stood at the Wellspring, he could hear the wails of his grandson. 

 _Good_ , he thought. If Harry had already gone beyond the first gateway, then it would require more than an effort of will to revive him. 

The current of the river was strong here and it pulled at Aster’s calves relentlessly, but he knew this branch of the river well and deftly skirted past pools and eddies that were eager to pull him under. He could feel the water attempting to dilute his spirit, but his will was strong, so it took only the color and none of the substance.

He strained his ears, listening…. A wail resounded from just up ahead and Aster increased his pace as much as he dared. Then, he saw a flash of movement from just up a head, and knew he had found Harry’s soul. Quick as a striking snake, Aster’s hand lashed out, seizing the toddler by the ankle as he fished him up and out of the water.

Aster’s relief for having caught up to his grandson’s soul turned to horror when he caught sight of the damage Voldemort’s horcrux had wrought upon it. 

Harry’s soul had been ravaged. His spirit-flesh was rent and torn with gagged chunks torn from it completely. 

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The Killing Curse had thrown both Harry and the horcrux from his body, but it had failed to do anything about dislodging the fragment of Voldemort’s soul. 

The soul fragment looked more like the unholy union of a centipede and a lamprey than anything that had once belonged to a human being. Its ridged circular mouth was clamped upon Harry’s forehead, burrowing into the spirit-flesh where the lightning bolt scar resided, while the rest of its long chitinous length was coiled around his grandson’s throat like a noose. Its numerous legs – barbed like fishhooks – were sunk deep into the spirit-flesh of his shoulders; the ends disappearing seamlessly into his skin.

For a moment, all Aster could do was stare in horror. How arrogant had he been to assume he could unbind a horcrux from its vessel?

Harry gave a faint mewl of pain and the horcrux seemed to shiver in perverse pleasure, its coils tightening even further. 

With revulsion churning in his gut, Aster reached forward with his free hand. New pages from _The Book of the Dead_ had appeared within his mind and he knew the only way to separate the two would be to physically pry them apart.

He gave a gasp of pain the instant his hand made contact with the spirit-flesh of the horcrux, because the very feel of it was so cold and wrong it seared his soul. Moira be merciful, Aster couldn’t imagine the sort of pain Harry must have been enduring since this thing had latched a hold of him. 

“Harry – Baby, I need you to hold on a little longer,” Aster forced between gritted teeth. “I’m going to make it stop hurting, but it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

He had no way of knowing if his grandson even understood what he was saying to him, but he knew he could delay no longer when pain glazed green eyes stared up at him and Harry let out another breathless whimper of agony. 

Aster decided to start with uncoiling the thing from around Harry’s neck, so that it couldn’t strangle him further. And so, steeling himself against what was to come, Aster reached down and slipped his fingers between the burning cold of the horcrux’s slick flesh and his grandson’s skin. He clenched his teeth, forcing his will and magic into the touch, and began to pull. Slowly at first, and then with more force as it became apparent it was necessary.

Even as the spirit-flesh of the horcrux burned into Aster, his fingers never went numb – they just burned with the cold more and more fiercely as though splinters ice were being forced into the very joints.

As Aster pulled upon it, the horcrux resisted being removed. Its barbed legs hooked desperately at Harry’s skin as the poor child screamed in agony. 

Aster felt tears burn his eyes. He didn’t know if they were from the pain of the horcrux’s touch or from Harry’s shrieks, but all he could do was continue to draw the soul fragment up and away. Finally, its lower legs tore free of Harry’s flesh. Aster redoubled his efforts. Barb by barb, inch by inch, he tore the abomination free. Sometimes he was forced to draw the thing up through Harry’s spirit-flesh itself.

Harry screamed until he ran out of breath, but Aster knew he couldn’t relent. He propelled forward the full strength of his will as he struggled against the soul fragment and finally – finally, its last segmented length came free from around Harry’s neck.

Harry’s eyes flew wide and he took a deep shuttering breath, but it was still not over. 

The thrashed against Aster’s hand as he tore its rasping mouth from Harry’s forehead. Then, suddenly, it twisted and spun like a striking serpent, and tried to latch itself to Aster instead as it sought a new host. 

Anger surged, hot and bright, as Aster hurled the soul fragment away from himself and Harry as hard as he could. It sailed through the grey light of Death and landed in the river with the plop of a heavy stone. 

Aster was tempted to summon his wand to his hand and cast a spell that would burn the soul fragment to ash, because even fire burned could burn in the spirit relm. Instead, he pulled Harry tight against himself and took a step back from the writhing soul fragment. 

As he moved, he drew Kibeth one-handed and swung it so that it sounded twice. It rang true and clear, the chime of its voice hanging in the air; biting and alive. 

The serpentine fragment quivered at the sound and lost its fight with the current of the river. Aster watched as it was carried away from them and was sucked backwards into the darkness that was the first gate. 

Aster stared at the gate for a moment, then sighed with relief when nothing fought its way back through. Then, after replacing the bell back in his bandoleer, he looked at his grandson appraisingly. Harry was staring back at him with green eyes that matched his own. They were blessedly lucid and free of pain. The river had drained the color from the toddler’s skin, but none of the substance. The wounds he had received from the horcrux were still present, but they would heal with time. A soul was a highly resilient thing, especially in one so young.

Harry graced him with a crooked smile and Aster felt an answering one tug at the corner of his own mouth. Still smiling, he turned, and began the long wade back up the river, towards the Wellspring and the gate that would return them both to their living flesh.

~¤~¤~¤~

In Life, Harry began to wail a second before Aster opened his eyes, so that Petunia was already halfway around the diamond ward, ready to pick him up. Frost crackled on the ground and icicles hung from Aster’s rather patrician nose. He wiped them off with the edge of his sleeve, banished the barrier with a wave of his hand, and moved to lean over both his daughter and grandson anxiously. 

“How is he?” he asked, even though he could feel previously tumultuous sea of Lily’s power beginning to settled about Harry like a gentle embrace. Petunia, meanwhile, stared up at him half-wonderingly and half-furious, because the child he had just killed was miraculously alive again.

“I’m of half a mind to test the thickness of your skull with my frying pan,” she croaked. “I knew you were taking him into Death with you. I just wasn’t expecting – _that_ ….”

Aster shrugged at bit sheepishly.

“It was the only way I could think to remove his soul from his body without damaging either,” he admitted, then added, “The real risk was the Killing Curse casting his soul beyond the first gate.” 

Petunia nodded absently, her knowledge of necromancy was academic at best, and instead focused her attention on keeping a hold of the now far more active toddler in her arms.

“ _Cold_ ,” Harry informed them with a shudder that was only half theatrical. “Too cold.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Aster agreed, he glanced at his daughter. “I don’t suppose Vernon will mind if Harry and I stuck around long enough to knock the chill from our bones, would he?" 

Petunia gave an indelicate snort.

“Vernon isn’t going to be protesting much of anything for a while,” she said, then pointed to her husband’s prone form laying slumped by the kitchen door. Apparently bearing witness to such a large amount of magic had been too much for the man as he’d collapsed in a dead faint.

Aster gave a faint hum of bemusement as he eyed both Vernon and the large, feathery lump now perched imperiously on his head. 

“What,” Fea asked in mock innocence. “I’m just making sure he hasn’t died on us.”

“Uh-huh, and being able to plant your feathered backside on his face has nothing at all to do with it,” he queried, quirking a single graying brow in disbelief. “Very mature, Fea.”

If Fea had possessed lips at the moment she would have smirked. Instead she gave a crowing cackle of laughter and took wing back to her master.

“It was either use his fat head for a cushion or pluck out his eyes for brunch,” she informed him as she settled herself. “I merely took my revenge in the manner I thought you least likely to disapprove of.”

Aster gave her feathered head a scratch.

“Both Petunia and I appreciate your restraint, dear-heart,” he informed her, then returned his attention to his daughter. “Would you like me to – erm – get him into the house for you,” he asked, giving a small wave in the direction of both.

“You might as well,” Petunia sighed, shifting Harry so that his weight was balanced on one bony hip. “I’ll put the kettle on while you do.”

Aster flicked his wand at Vernon with a murmur of, “ _mobilicorpus_ ,” under his breath. 

The effect was instant, Vernon rose into the air like a living marionette with his head lolling drunkenly at the end of his short fat neck. Next, while holding his wand like a conductor’s baton, Aster directed the levitating Vernon in through the kitchen, down the hall, and into the sitting room.

Aster had just finished lowering his son-in-law onto the sofa, when Petunia gave a holler from the kitchen. 

“Dad, once you’ve got Vernon settled, bring Dudley with you into the kitchen, alright? It’s time for his morning snack.”

“Of course, Petunia,” he called back, skirting around the coffee table to where Dudley was sitting in his playpen. “Well, you’re a sturdy looking little fellow, aren’t you?” he remarked, lifting the rotund little boy up and into his arms. Dudley’s small face twisting into a scowl, as he was not quite sure of what to make of some stranger picking him up. “Now, let’s get you to your mummy before you try and deafen me.”

~¤~¤~¤~

A short while later found everyone, minus Vernon, was gathered around the kitchen table of number four; a merry, blue flamed fire crackling in the kitchen fireplace. 

Aster, who had removed both sword belt and bandoleer and hung them from the back of his chair, was seated nearest to the fire with Harry resting against his chest. The heat of the bluebell flames knocking the chill of Death from their bones.

While Dudley was happily demolishing a bowl of dry Weetos, Petunia was pouring tea into a trio of cups. The first she added a heaping spoon of sugar to and passed to her father, the second she added a splash of milk to and set before Fea and the third she kept for herself unaltered.

“I know you take Mum’s blend without anything, but trust me when I say you look like you could use the sugar,” Petunia informed her father.

“Ta, Petunia,” he replied mildly, just enjoying the fragrant steam rising from his cup.

Neither of them paid any mind to Fea, who, now in the form of a long-haired black cat with tufted ears, was now daintily lapping up her milky tea. 

They sat in silence for a while, sipping at their drinks until all that was left were the dredges in the bottoms of their cups. It was then that Petunia pulled Dumbledore’s letter from her dressing gown pocket and set it in the middle of the table.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do, Dad,” she admitted while Aster scanned the letter for himself. “According to this we’ll only be safe from You-Know-Who’s followers if Harry is here, but you know as well as I do that Vernon won’t stand for a wizard in the house.”

Frowning thoughtfully, Aster set the letter aside.

“That’s not completely true,” he said, then held up his hand to forestall his daughter’s protests. “I’m not disagreeing with you about Vernon…. Just about Dumbledore’s protective measures … if – and bear with me on this Petunia – if these wards take effect the moment Harry was carried over the threshold and then will dissipate when Harry reaches his majority, then they can’t rely on Harry being here all the time, probably not even _most_ of the time….”

“What do you mean,” Petunia asked hopefully.

“In the wizarding world, you come of age at seventeen,” Aster began. “However, as you know, they begin schooling at eleven… And, unless I’m completely reading this wrong, Dumbledore wants Harry to rejoin their world and that means going off to school for ten months of the year….”

“So, Harry only needs to spend a couple of months a year here to maintain the protection?”

“Probably even less,” Aster agreed.

Petunia looked thoughtful as she fiddled with her teacup.

“Vernon – Vernon still won’t be happy about it,” she admitted. “Magic of any sort scares him.”

Aster reached across the table, took Petunia hand into his own, and gave it a fortifying squeeze.

“He doesn’t have to be happy about it, Petunia,” he said. “He just has to accept it … for your sake, and for Dudley’s if no one else’s….

“And,” he quirked a wiry smile. “If he so worried about what the neighbors will say – just remind him that most _normal_ people have a few weird relatives that pop in around the holidays, yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this wasn't too shabby for an un-betaed first time I've ever got the nerve to actually post it fan fiction.
> 
> Part-two is currently a WIP/outline at the moment and I'll begin posting it once I've got a few chapters hammered out and polished up.
> 
> Finally I would like to thank everyone who has left kudos, subscribed, or bookmarked this fic. Your support has meant the world to me.


End file.
